"What do you know?" he cried.
"No matter—— I must hear your story first," she said. "And you have not answered my leading question yet."
"I will tell you my story, and then you may be able to answer it for yourself," he said.
They sought a beautiful, secluded spot where they were not likely to be interrupted or overheard, and Guy Kenmore confided to her sympathizing ears the story of that fatal tenth of June, when old Ronald Brooke had met his death and Irene Brooke had become his wife.
The lady listened with eager, breathless interest, with parted lips and shining eyes, and color that varied from white to red and red to white.
When he had finished he looked at her with something like a smile in his dark-brown eyes.
"Mrs. Leslie, I have given you my confidence now. Perhaps you can answer your own question."
She laughed, merrily.
"I can put two and two together as cleverly as any woman, I think," she replied. "And you have made this case quite clear. My pretty Irene is your wife."
"Yes," he replied. "And she is the daughter of Clarence Stuart."